


I'll be your man if you got love to get done

by CaffeineChic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Canon, fluff? i don't even know anymore, i haven't written in 6000 years, they are both soft idiots and i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 23:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20804753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineChic/pseuds/CaffeineChic
Summary: Crowley took a long, steadying breath -- the words “That woman thinks I’m your boyfriend” fell out of his mouth.“Oh. How fanciful.”-------In which Crowley is mistaken for a bookshop employee, and then trips over books and words.





	I'll be your man if you got love to get done

**Author's Note:**

> Here's hoping this isn't a complete mess. I haven't written in many many many years.

“Oh hi, do you work here now?”

“Do I _ look _ like I work here?” (Now?!)

“Yes? You’re stacking a bookshelf.”

Crowley squinted at the woman from behind his sunglasses, four books precariously balanced in one hand, several more at his feet. 

Well. She had him there.

“Yeah, but I’m doing a piss poor job of it.” 

(He wasn’t. Everything was exactly where it should be. Though, perhaps not wholly where a potential customer would expect, which was entirely the point. 

Aziraphale would be very pleased.

Which was the actual point, if he was pressed on it.)

“And no, I don’t _ work _here!” Crowley shoved two of the books haphazardly onto the shelf without looking to prove his point.

(This was somewhat undercut when he immediately corrected their positioning with decidedly more care while absently stroking his fingers down their spines.)

The woman took a step back and gave him what he could only call an appraisal of his entire form. The cheek! 

“Oooh, you’re Mr Fell’s...?” 

The question hung mid-air waiting for him to complete it, to shore it up and make it whole.

Crowley’s arms flailed in the empty space where a noun failed to materialize. There were no longer books in his hand, there were certainly more at his feet. The noise was enough to draw more looks. “I...I’m Mr Fell’s….” 

He really had no idea where he was hoping to land with this, somewhere safe -- an identifier that wouldn’t cause Aziraphale to panic if he heard it. 

(Although, really. Was a noun necessary when the possessive seemed to be covering it just fine.)

“Ah.” The woman seemed satisfied with whatever it was he hadn’t managed to say and started to walk away. “Nevermind, I’ll see if I can find Mr. Fell up front.”

“FRIEND!” Crowley shouted suddenly at the back of her retreating form, tripping over the word, his feet, the books -- a stunning triple. “I’m Mr Fell’s friend!”

That’s the ticket. Friend. Perfectly safe. And true! Aziraphale had even stopped denying it.

(Aziraphale had stopped doing a lot of things of late --

\- like waiting anything longer than a day to contact Crowley. 

\- like sitting on the furthest end of the bench from him at the park.

\- like _ not _ holding Crowley’s hand with their fingers laced together as they walked around town. On more than one occasion. Not the Crowley was counting. He wasn’t _ ridiculous _.

4 times. It had been 4 times.) 

The woman glanced back at him with a confused look. “Okaaaaay.” 

_She doesn’t believe me! _ Crowley’s brain spluttered around the indignity of it. 

The woman had given him the look of a person deeply confused as to why the strange man in dark glasses at the back of a bookshop was shouting at her that he was friends -- _ friends _ \-- with the proprietor. 

_Humans -- absolute cheek! _

(As though anyone who had spoken to the notoriously selling-adverse Mr Fell hadn’t known within 3 seconds that he was a certain type of gentleman who preferred the company of other gentlemen.

As though anyone who half-managed to be a regular to the oddest bookshop in all of London hadn’t seen a Crowley-shaped gentleman unfold himself from the backroom on multiple occasions. 

As though Crowley wasn’t the only person to have ever been witnessed actively handling multiple volumes of antique tomes without Mr. Fell miraculously appearing on his shoulder to ask in no uncertain terms that he please put that book right back down as it’s not actually for sale. Despite the price sticker.)

“What in heaven’s name are you doing, my dear?” Aziraphale appeared as if summoned, which -- given that Crowley had been dropping books and shouting at a human -- he might as well have been.

Crowley desperately attempted to play it cool. “Absolutely nothing in heaven’s name, angel.”

Aziraphale fully rolled his eyes in the direction of the place from which neither of them were currently partaking in employment. “Are you bothering my customers?” 

(There was a distinct pitch of hope in his voice that did not go unnoticed by Crowley.)

Crowley took a long, steadying breath -- which he didn’t need for anything other than to stall for time to get away from this moment. And then completely obliterated the lead when the words “That woman thinks I’m your boyfriend” fell out of his mouth. 

_Christ, Satan, _ anyone at all _ who is listening -- please -- raze me to the ground right now. _The blood was pounding in his ears. He tried very hard to not sit directly down on the floor. 

“Oh. How fanciful.” 

_Fine, its fine _ , Crowley thought -- the urge to sit on the floor was becoming more overwhelming by the second -- _ just keep thinking it’s fine. You weren’t really using this heart anyway, the fact that its in a vice right now shouldn’t be that much of a concern. And when you discorporate back downstairs it will be fine when you have to remind them that Holy Water can’t touch you as far as they’re concerned, but an angel thinking the idea that you were his boyfriend was laughable has caused your innards to dissolve. It’s fine. It’s fine. _

Crowley became vaguely aware that Aziraphale was still talking.

“I mean you’re not a _ boy _ , but I suppose _ manfriend _ does sound ridiculous though. And she doesn’t _ know _ that we’re over 6000 years old. Or not really men. Men-shaped certainly, mostly, I know you’ve never had a real preference, dear.” Aziraphale paused a moment and considered. 

(His phrasing, apparently. Not the actuality of Crowley looking as though every word in the human language was trying to break out of his body and meeting nothing but sharp-angled resistance.)

“Partner is just so formal and ambiguous.” He took Crowley’s hand in his and squeezed gently.

(5 times!)

“Boyfriend will suffice for now.” 

(For now?!) Crowley slid gracelessly to the floor, tethered to an increasingly bemused Aziraphale. 

Oh this discorporation was going to be even worse. 

_Request for new body -- the angel called me his boyfriend and all of my internal organs shut down at once._

Hastur was going to have a field day.

**Author's Note:**

> [CaffeineChic on Tumblr](http://caffeinechic.tumblr.com)
> 
> Sept 2020 update: Having learned alot about myself and language and gender over the last year I hope the line about partner sounding informal and ambiguous does not read poorly. It is absolutely a valid choice of relationship definition.


End file.
